Jump In
by bluedana
Summary: There is only one thing Malcolm fears more than drowning.


**Author's Notes: This story was written for Drown Malcolm Month. Fortunately for me, there's more than one way to drown a Malcolm. **

**Thanks to PM for editorial suggestions.**

Disclaimer: ST: ENT and its characters are the property of Paramount. Of course I'm not making any money off this.

* * *

**Jump In, by bluedana**

The vast lake to my right smells like hell. It might very well _be_ hell, for all I know. The glassy surface is completely opaque, its chemical composition something more than simple hydrogen and oxygen. The captain strolls ahead of me, perfectly comfortable skirting the stinking soup of death, joking that perhaps we have found the winter home of the Loch Ness monster. Since our handheld scanners can't tell us what's lurking in the black water, I half expect to see a three headed scaly monster rising from the depths at any moment. We walk in single file, toe to heel, along a narrow path, our shoulders brushing the towering cliff on our left, unconsciously falling in by order of rank: Captain Archer, Commander T'Pol, Commander Tucker, and me, unhappily bringing up the rear.

I try to take in every direction at once, uncomfortable as usual with the captain's decision to explore an unfamiliar planet with inadequate security. The only other security officer on this mission guards the shuttle pod, with strict orders from me to keep sharp.

The planet, bearing no name that we could discern, is barely habitable. What few trees exist here are bare, sick looking sticks, bearing neither fruit nor leaves to indicate that they are even alive. Frankly, the land looks like a post-apocalyptic nightmare. There are plenty of large, possibly predatory animals in the vicinity, but no humanoids – which is the reason for this mission. Enterprise's sweeping sensors have detected a decayed warp signature, which, in turn belongs to a ship, landed or crashed in the tall grasses on the edge of this lake. The chance that there are any survivors is slim to none. We're tracking it down anyway.

Our own shuttle pod lies about two kilometers behind us. The location of the alien ship – if in fact that's what it is – can only be reached by foot. Naturally. So here we are, picking our way along an almost invisible path, trying not to slide down the short embankment into the vast, slimy, oily lake.

"This planet sucks," Commander "Trip" Tucker mutters grumpily. I'm inclined to agree, but, noticing the way the captain's back stiffens at the comment, I keep my mouth shut.

He and I already have had words about this mission, back when we were all gathered around the Situation Console at the rear of Enterprise's Bridge. I, perhaps unwisely, questioned his decision to take three senior officers off the ship on what would be, at most, a reconnaissance survey. I also pointed out that his presence on-planet would be superfluous, since Commanders T'Pol and Tucker have the job of finding and examining the ship covered, and I am there to protect them. The captain brings only his insatiable curiosity, really.

To his credit, I suppose, the captain kept his temper, glacially informing me that "the matter is not up for debate, Lieutenant," – when is it ever? – and giving me fifteen minutes to report to the shuttle launch bay. That was, I knew, my last warning, so I left the Bridge without another word.

It was not the ideal way to start a mission, I think, and I resolve to mend that particular fence as soon as we are safely back on board Enterprise.

To make the excursion worse, it begins to rain, not the soft drizzle of a typical London day, but a nasty, cold, sideways shower of needles, stinging any patch of unprotected skin. As we trudge along under roiling dark grey clouds, cold and miserable, I hear Commander Tucker trying out his inventory of colloquial North American profanities, an impressive collection that would make his mother proud, I'm sure. With each step, I concentrate on lifting my boots out of the sticky river of mud the path has become.

I hear the streak of energy sing past my ear and even as I duck out of the way, I think that it is some weird lightning strike. The second shot, hitting in almost exactly the same place as the first, disabuses me of that notion. "Take cover!" I yell, even as I realize that there is no cover to take. We are in the absolute worst position possible, open targets against a sheer cliff face.

"Back that way!" Archer orders, returning fire at the massive silver flying creatures approaching at what seems like warp speed over the surface of the lake. I quickly count eleven; not an unmanageable number for the four of us. Trip and T'Pol are good shots; I am even better. I aim and fire as if on autopilot, blessing the late Major Hayes and his incessant target practice and attack drills in the Expanse.

We fire as we run, ducking energy blasts and falling rocks as the cliff takes some damage. I know we still have about a kilometer to go before we reach the shuttle. Before that, though, there are stubby trees where we can at least stake out a more defensible position. I hope that Crewman Egawa, back on shuttle guard duty, is alert enough to notice the weapons fire.

A choked sound catches my attention, and I turn to see a winged creature – not really a bird, not really a reptile – clip T'Pol with its heavy wing. She falls and slides a few meters in the slick mud toward the lip of the embankment. The captain lunges forward to grab her, and the creature wheels around and attacks him instead. It picks him up and drops him like a rag doll; he barely has enough time to raise his arm into defensive position before the winged thing swoops again.

I run toward him, firing and, I think, yelling – probably looking a lot like my ancient ancestors hurtling across the English plains into the teeth of their Roman conquerors. My phase pistol slices another creature in half, and I know then that we have won this battle. Trip and I take back-to-back positions, firing long, sustained shots that literally cut the attackers down. The captain is gaining ground in hand to claw combat, less than a meter away from the edge of the lake. The two remaining creatures retreat, and I take off running after them. In the red haze of my fury, I hear T'Pol scream something – odd, that, because she rarely ever raises her voice – but I keep on chasing the enemy, bent on killing every last one. They fly faster than I can run, though, and after a dozen or so meters, I turn and head back.

I am unprepared for what I find.

T'Pol leans over the embankment, her round, Vulcan sensor pointed at the lake. Trip is crawling along the edge, his face a mask of panic. And the captain, well, the captain is nowhere to be seen.

"What –" I pant, unable to form a coherent sentence even if I had breath for one.

"Captain Archer is in the lake," T'Pol says, sparing a nanosecond to glance at me.

"The captain is an excellent swimmer," I say stupidly.

"He was injured, perhaps unconscious," T'Pol replies, sounding testy. The surface of the lake has become choppy from the wind and the pelting rain. The corpse of one of the creatures slowly sinks under the water.

"I don't see him!" Trip calls from ten meters away. "You got anything, T'Pol?"

"The minerals in the water are interfering with the scanner," she shouts back, her voice strained.

"Fuck," Trip says, kicking off his boots and dropping his communicator. "Raise Enterprise, see if they can get any readings." And with that, he dives into the freezing alien water.

Up until this moment, it hasn't occurred to me that any of us would have to physically rescue the captain. This is a man who is utterly comfortable in the water, a strong swimmer. Hell, the man swam competitively, for fun, and, judging from random conversations I'd heard about him, at a championship level back in the day. So, until Trip jumps headfirst into that cold, stinking, element-laden water, I've given no thought to doing it myself. And now that the notion has crossed my mind, I much prefer ignorance.

_Trip'll find him in there_, I reassure myself as I count the seconds ticking by. _He was a diving instructor in Florida_. I remember that he even taught Captain Archer to dive, so he must have a fair amount of expertise at it. _If anybody can find the captain, it would be Trip_.

Trip comes up after close to a minute, eyes streaming as he treads water. "It's pitch black down there," he yells up at us. "Enterprise get anything?"

"Negative," T'Pol calls back. "Perhaps the shuttle sensors . . ." At that moment, the 'pod appears over the cliff ledge and heads down to hover unsteadily over the lake, its searchlight illuminated. Its thrusters stir the water into a torrent. Trip waves his arm sharply, signaling the shuttle pod to get up higher. Then he disappears into the blackness again.

Forty seconds later, he bobs up again, gasping. "Malcolm, _help_ me! I can't see much of anything down here!"

I cannot move. Although I stand on relatively solid ground, I can feel the cold water filling my lungs, cutting off my air. And I cannot make my feet move. Trip draws another deep breath and dives under again. This time he lasts only twenty-two seconds before he breaks the surface. I can see that he's rapidly growing exhausted. He has maybe two more dives in him before he becomes disoriented and ineffective. "For God's _sake_, Malcolm," he yells at me desperately, "_what the hell are you waiting for_?!"

"Lieutenant!" T'Pol snaps, all trace of Vulcan equanimity gone. "What is the matter with you?"

Of course they expect me to jump in; why would they not? After all, it is my job to place my life on the line for this crew, and most especially for my captain. Isn't that what I've drilled into them over the past seven years?

But I neither meet her eyes, nor answer. After all, what the hell can I say? The one person who would understand why I cannot, _will not_ jump into that water, the one who has apparently kept my secret from his second and third in command, is the one who needs me to save his life. I wonder if he would forgive me.

Trip dives yet again as T'Pol and I both stand helplessly. And then we see the two of them, Trip struggling and the captain limp, twenty meters away from the bank. Trip can barely move forward with his burden; the choppy waves wash over him as he tries futilely to keep the captain's face above the surface.

There's no way he will reach the shore.

"Lieutenant," T'Pol says again, this time a sort of question. I ignore her; I have to.

Without another word, she jumps into the water herself and is swimming with beginner's strokes to where Trip fights to stay afloat. Graceful in everything else, she's surprisingly clumsy in water. Of course she would be, though, I remind myself; she's a creature of the desert. I remember reading that Vulcans, like Earth's chimpanzees, possess very little body fat, and therefore they are not designed to float. T'Pol has only her considerable upper body strength and sheer force of will to propel herself forward. It will be a miracle if all three of them don't drown.

I look around frantically for a rope, a vine, anything I can use to pull them in towards the shore – that much I recall from my Eagle Scout days. But there's nothing; why should this god-forsaken planet start cooperating now? I lie face down in the fetid mud and extend my arm, bracing myself as best I can while T'Pol hauls herself onto the ledge. Trip heaves the captain's body up and I, finally useful, pull him the rest of the way and lay him out on the path. His eyes are closed, his skin a ghostly bluish-grey.

T'Pol shivers violently behind me as I feel for a pulse. If the captain's heart is still beating, I can't detect it. I put my ear next to his nose and mouth. No breath. I place my mouth over his, making a tight seal, pinch his nose closed, and begin CPR. His lungs, full of water, resist against each breath, and his chest barely rises at all. His skin feels cold and stiff, almost waxen; the water could not have been more than eighteen degrees. Two puffs, listen. Fifteen compressions. Feel for pulse. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Dimly, I hear Trip signal for transport, alerting Sickbay to stand by. The tactical part of my mind approves; return by shuttle pod would take far too long, and Egawa has only basic piloting skills, not enough to land anywhere near here and take off again safely. I keep the compressions going until I feel the odd tingling sensation, like bees buzzing in my bones, as the lake and the stink and the rain all fade away.

Dr. Phlox is standing at the transporter when I know anything again. Almost before Hess has finished re-materializing us, the doctor is bounding up onto the platform. "Hold compressions," he orders, running his scanner six inches above the captain's body. My hands are numb, from either the cold or the exertion, and they tremble as I hold them aloft. "He has a pulse now. Keep breathing for him." He hands me a mask respirator as two crewmen lift the captain onto a stretcher. I must look totally befuddled, as Phlox clarifies abruptly, "Steady rhythm, Lieutenant Reed. Stop wasting time." The stretcher jerks into motion, and I have no choice but to step onto the bottom rung and ride along with it, squeezing the rubber balloon in a _one_-two-three, _one_-two-three cadence, like a Straussian waltz.

In Sickbay, I am immediately ejected and replaced with a machine. Phlox's assistants begin to undress the captain and wrap him in heated blankets to combat hypothermia. Freezing cold and soaking wet myself, I back out of the room and make my way to the shuttle bay, steeling myself for the confrontation that must occur when my two remaining commanding officers arrive and demand an explanation for my criminal inaction.

I have one, but as I wait, shivering uncontrollably, I honestly can't say if I would be willing to give it.

--

I've been sitting in the Crew's Mess for three hours now, listening to the not-very-subtle whispers of my crewmates around me. More than once, I've heard my name spoken in hushed tones, as the drama of our on-planet adventure makes the grapevine. Nobody gets it, though; so far, the crew believe that we all three risked our lives to rescue the captain from drowning.

I am in civilian clothes, a fact that does not escape anyone's notice. After I made myself stand under the hot shower – and you have no idea how difficult that was, believe me – I could not bear to put on my uniform. The two bars on the shoulder mocked me, glinting in the light, questioning my right to wear them.

I haven't seen Trip or T'Pol since the shuttle pod docked. The First Officer marched right past me, the silver emergency blanket wrapped tightly around her. Following behind, Trip paused at the top of the metal stairs and gripped my arm briefly. "Get changed," he said wearily. "I'll go check on the captain."

That was six hours ago, and I have no idea if the captain is alive or dead. I toss back the rest of my tea – a double strength Malay blend that Chef stocks just for me. It's cold and nasty, not unlike the brackish water we've left behind. I push the mug away just as a fresh steaming cup appears on the table before me. I look up in surprise. It's Trip.

His expression tells me all I need to know for the moment. The captain is hanging on. Trip slides into the seat opposite me, cradling his own cup of coffee. I pick up the hot tea and take a sip. Milky and sweet, absolutely the opposite of how I take it. Trip must think I'm in shock. I may very well be.

Trip wraps his hands all the way around the big black mug. He's having trouble getting warm, after his freezing swim. I know the feeling. I don't say anything.

After a while, Trip puts his cup down on the table. "Wanna tell me what happened down there, Malcolm?" he asks, low enough that only I can hear him. This is why people confide in Trip; his voice is neutral and non-judgmental, quiet. He's absolutely willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. Well, that will change soon enough.

"How is the captain?" I respond instead.

Trip sighs. "Well, he's conscious now, but he probably wishes he wasn't. Phlox says the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours are crucial. When I left Sickbay, he'd been puking his guts out for about an hour already. Phlox says that all that water he swallowed is pretty noxious. He'll be sick as a dog for a couple of days at least.

"T'Pol says he was in the water for three minutes and twelve seconds, and Phlox said that was cutting it really close. He said it actually helped that the water was so cold."

"Four minutes," I murmur. "After four minutes without oxygen, the brain cells begin to die. People last longer in cold water because the body's metabolism slows down. The 'mammalian diving reflex' slows the heartbeat and redirects the flow of blood from the extremities to the heart and brain, thereby helping to preserve vital organs." I repeat the principle as if I am taking my O-level exams. Trip looks at me as if I am a freak. He doesn't realize I've made a thorough study of death by water. "More people survive near-drownings with no serious effects in cold water than in warm water," I add.

Nodding slowly, Trip replies, "Phlox says he thinks the captain will be fine, thanks to your quick CPR."

I can't help it; I laugh bitterly. "Yeah, thanks to me."

Another minute goes by, then Trip circles back to his original question. "What happened to you down there, Malcolm?"

I look him straight in the eye, not a complete coward. "I don't like the water."

Trip rolls his eyes in exasperation. "I know that already. I've been on shore leave with you."

I continue as if he hasn't spoken. "And by that, I mean I am afraid of the water. I have aquaphobia. A fear of water, or, more precisely, a fear of drowning."

That shuts him up. He sits back in his chair, flummoxed. "You can't swim?"

"I can swim," I answer with exaggerated patience. "In theory. But in a real life situation, it's all panic and irrational fear."

"Not so irrational, I'd say," Trip responds. "I'm a strong swimmer and I almost didn't make it."

He still doesn't get it. "Commander, I was _paralyzed_ down there. I could no more have jumped in to help you rescue the captain than I could have sprouted wings and flown. If you hadn't been there, I would have stood there and let him drown." I shake my head. "Hell, even T'Pol –" I stop and pull a deep breath as a nauseating wave of shame washes over me. "Oh, bloody hell, Commander," I choke out, perilously close to tears, "I would have bloody stood there on the bank and bloody let him _drown_."

Trip glances around surreptitiously and slides out of his chair. "Come on, Lieutenant," he says. "You need to get some rest. I'll walk you to your quarters."

"So I'm relieved of duty, then, am I?" I inquire heavily.

"Oh, shut up," Trip says.

"The thing is," I slur, an hour or four later, deep in my cups, "Captain Archer would never hesitate to save any one of us, not even me."

"Mmm, that's probably true," Trip answers. He doesn't sound drunk in the least. I suspect he's still nursing his original inch of Scotch while I've been polishing off the rest of the bottle. He slouches in my desk chair and crosses his ankles. I'm propped up against the pillows of my wrinkled bed.

"You weren't there," I insist, "when he begged for my life as we were being led to the gallows. And – and that time I had that mine through my leg, out on the hull, he refused to leave me out there and get the ship to safety."

"He's like that," Trip agrees, and I get the feeling he's just humoring his drunk friend. He studies me for a moment while I pout. Finally, he asks, almost casually, "Malcolm, does the cap'n know you're aquaphobic?"

I think back to that humiliating revelation out on the hull of the ship, my explanation of why I hadn't followed the footsteps of generations of Reed men serving in the Royal Navy. I remember that the captain didn't blink; he just assured me that my secret was safe with him. At the time, I wasn't worried about it, as I never expected to survive his rescue attempt. It's hard to be embarrassed about something when you're dead.

"Yeah," I say slowly. "He knows. And he's probably been regretting recruiting me ever since."

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Trip says, and I notice uncomfortably that his eyes are uncharacteristically cold, and his expression is serious. "Your commanding officer is a fool, who entrusts an incompetent security officer with the lives of every single one of his crew, when he knows he should replace you with someone who isn't such a freaking coward."

Ah, the tough love route. Good job. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" I ask, even though we've long since thrown the rules of protocol out the airlock.

"Yeah."

"_Sod_ off, Commander," I snap, sitting up and planting my feet, sending the almost empty bottle of Scotch skittering across the deck. "You don't know anything about it." The room is beginning to spin.

"Well, _you_ do the math, Lieutenant," Trip argues. "You told the cap'n you're aquaphobic, and he didn't care. Didn't relieve you of duty, didn't confine you to the ship." He leans forward. "Malcolm. What the hell makes you think the cap'n would blame you for not jumping into the drink to rescue him? Why would he even _expect_ you to, knowing what he knows about you?"

I don't say anything.

"It seems to me that the cap'n expects everything _else_ from you, Malcolm. Except that."

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Probably tomorrow, when I'm sober, I'll think of a logical reply.

"I mean, we're in space. Who the hell knew that fear of water would ever be a problem, any more than, say, fear of bugs?"

"I'm sorry, bugs?" I repeat.

"Everybody has their kryptonite," Trip mutters, "the thing they're afraid of." I wait. "That first planet we ever visited, I almost shot off my own foot when a bug crawled into my sleeping bag. Hate 'em."

"I'd venture to say that it's not quite the same thing," I respond, stifling a yawn. "Not a life and death situation, that."

Trip shoots me a look that isn't quite friendly. "Well, I've had my fair share of nightmares about those bug Xindi, so I'm not sure I'd agree with you there."

I close my mouth, a bit ashamed of myself.

After a moment, Trip rises, placing his glass gently on the floor. "Nobody blames you for your fear except you, Malcolm." I avoid his gaze. "Get some sleep. I'll ask T'Pol to assign someone to cover your shift tomorrow."

--

In my dream, I am swimming under water, very ably, too, since I am fairly graceful by nature and this is a dream, after all. I don't recognize my surroundings – I dart, fully clothed, through narrow tunnels and sudden openings. The writing on the walls seems familiar to me, but I can't place it as I pass by. White block letters, numbers; I know I've seen something like it before.

I come to a door and stop, suddenly afraid. It's not the kind of door you'd have in your flat, with a normal door handle or a quaint window. No, this one is large and oval, with a round, wheel-like handle, grey metal, of nautical design. Or, more precisely, submarine. I know where I am now, and it's no place I want to be. Even though I shouldn't register temperature at all, the door handle is cold to my touch. I grip it with both hands and turn, counterclockwise. I pull the heavy door, covered with the grey-green moss of half a century's neglect, slowly toward me.

I don't want to go through the hatch, because I know what I'll find. I've been here many times before in my dreams: the _HMS_ _Clement_. Waiting down this dark corridor will be my great-uncle, James Alan Reed, eternally the hero, with that slightly surprised expression on his face.

I am underwater, but I sigh deeply, knowing there's nothing else to do but proceed; I can't wake up otherwise.

I propel myself forward, toward the man floating lazily, hanging as if in mid-air. I gently turn him around, and come face-to-face with my fear in what must be the most basic psychological suggestion possible.

But it's all wrong. I gasp in shock to see my captain, not my great-uncle. _This isn't how it's supposed to happen_, I protest silently. But Captain Archer only stares sightlessly at me, eyes open and fixed like two green smudges in his cyanotic face.

I wrench myself awake, sweating and panting. In the hundreds of times I have experienced this dream, it has always been the same, until today. Oddly, I am more disturbed by the variation than by the dream itself.

I roll out of bed and glance at the clock. Oh-eight hundred hours. I should be on the Bridge, but I haven't been returned to duty by either commander. Truth be told, I haven't asked. It's time to have the conversation.

Hours later, when I walk into Sickbay – my second-least favorite place in the universe – Captain Archer is in the midst of a coughing fit. He holds a towel to his mouth as he hacks wetly, curled on his side on the uncomfortable bio-bed. Phlox hovers with a hypospray, finally injecting him with something that seems to help him relax slightly. Panting, bent over at the waist, he presses his fingertips to his sternum, eyes closed. I wince in sympathy; having inhaled water a few times myself, I know that it hurts like hell. Plus, cardiac compressions will usually crack a few ribs, if you do them right.

He looks very much the worse for wear, eyes bloodshot, face sagging. Still, he brightens a bit as he notices me.

"Hello, sir," I say quietly, leaning back against the bed opposite his.

"Malcolm," he answers, ever informal. His voice is hoarse from two days of coughing and vomiting.

"Er, how are you feeling, sir?" After seven years, I am still unable to make small talk with this man without sounding like a wind-up toy.

He grimaces. "Somewhat worse than I look, I guess."

"Oh," I say lamely. "Sorry, then, sir."

"I want to thank you for saving my life," he says, without a hint of a smile.

Damn. They haven't told him what happened. That will make this conversation so much more difficult. "I really – Trip and T'Pol were the ones who actually pulled you out of the water, sir."

"Yes, I've already spoken to them."

"Oh," I say again.

"So, thank you." He watches me for a moment, unspeaking, then prompts wearily, "Go ahead, Malcolm. Spit it out."

I realize I have assumed parade-rest position, my chin lifted. "I should tell you, sir, that when you have been cleared to resume command, I intend to submit my resignation."

The captain's pale face becomes even paler, but he holds my gaze. "Tell me why."

"I failed in my job. I failed to protect you, sir. "

"Interesting," the captain replies. "Because the last thing I recall is you running _into_ danger, protecting all of us."

"I froze. I could not make myself go into that water, even if it meant watching you drown."

He blinks, my bluntness taking him off guard, then rasps, "Then I suppose I failed to protect you, too. That's _my_ job as captain. You would not have been in that situation at all, if I hadn't insisted on the away mission. Perhaps _I_ should resign." He shrugs. "You know, we could go on like this, Malcolm, until we both end up unemployed. . . "

His mild amusement irks me, but deep down, I'm relieved. Drowning in guilt is just as overwhelming and painful as drowning in water.

He rubs his eyes with his hand. "Just for the record, Malcolm: I am not going accept your resignation over this. Not today, not next week, not next month. Everyone has _some_ paralyzing fear to deal with; you're not the only one. I will never hold that against you. There is no doubt in my mind that if Trip hadn't been there, you _would_ have jumped into that water. No doubt at all."

Phlox pokes his head out of his private alcove. "Lieutenant, the captain needs to rest."

Captain Archer and I exchange conspiratorial looks. Not being cleared for duty has its distinct disadvantages, not the least of which is being treated like a child by a protective Phlox. "Aye, sir," he says obediently, pulling up the blanket.

I head toward the door, but turn before pressing the button. "You said that everyone has a paralyzing fear. If I may ask, sir, what is yours?"

The captain looks away briefly, perhaps embarrassed, then meets my eyes. "Losing any one of you," he answers simply.

I nod, not knowing what to say. At least my fears have remained inside the realm of the hypothetical. I count myself lucky.

"Get back to work, Lieutenant," he adds gruffly. "I expect you to be back on the Bridge first thing tomorrow."

I pause again with my hand hovering over the door release. It needs to be said. He deserves to know the whole truth. "To be honest, sir, I'm not sure what I would do, given the same situation again. I'm not sure I ever would jump in after you." I push the button, step through into the corridor.

The doors have almost closed when I hear, quietly, behind me, "Oh, but I am, Malcolm. Very sure."

I take a deep breath.


End file.
